Sympathy for the Devil
by Satine16
Summary: Harleen Quinzel did not start out lost in the midst of a shared psychosis. She arrived there after falling in love with a villianous man. This story is about her fall. Please Review. Ch 5 & 6 up!
1. Bad Habits

Title: Sympathy for the Devil 

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters involved, they are all property of DC comics. The song is **Believe **by Triptii. I don't own that either. I'm not doing this for money so please don't sue me! 

Chapter 1: Bad Habits…

The same person was staring back in the mirror. Every day, every month, every year. Nothing about her ever changed. She continued to be a carbon copy of her mother in her youth. Her hair was pale white, shiny and full. She had it cut in a multitude of layers and wore it long. With bangs. Her large, pale, blue eyes were surrounded by a deep, black fringe and precise eyeliner. Her skin was pale and flawless. Not even a freckle. Her mouth was wide and full, so much so that as a teenager she had taught herself to smile, so as not to allow the grin to consume her face. That would be simply grotesque.

It was her first year out of school. She could have opted to go into graduate school, but she decided to take the job offer instead. Being top of her class there were a variety of options open to her, but the offer that allowed her to stay in Gotham seemed most appealing.

The Arkham Asylum had offered her a position, after seeing her test scores and class standing. Harleen had, after all, an emphasis in Criminal Psychosis. She had done her research. Viktor Fris, or Mr. Freeze, was plagued by the loss of his wife. Felt that he needed to right the world of wrongs against her. Obviously, it was a delusional disorder that allowed him to believe that the only possibility for justice lay within his hands. Both Matt Hagen a.k.a. Clayface and Harvey Dent a.k.a. Two-Face suffered from an advanced form of personality disorder, or schizophrenia. Pamela Isley, to the world known as Poison Ivy, was obviously neglected at some point in her life, so much so that she turned her affections to non-responsive living organisms. Silently Harleen laughed, she was young yes, but they didn't have a thing to throw at her and disable her. She would be ready for everything.

Alex had left already. He was screwing some red head behind her back. Obviously he thought she was stupid. That she wouldn't figure it out. Yet, some days, she couldn't fight back the thought that he wanted her to find out, that he wanted to start another fight. That was Alexander, always looking for another fight.

Harleen walked into her room and looked into the closet. She wasn't quite sure which outfit would be best for the occasion. Johnny Intagliatta, known to the world as Johnny Smash, lead singer for the band _CRASH_, was in for a concert in the city. Her ticket was ready to go on the table. Carefully, Harleen selected a pair of low rise, dark wash blue jeans and a low cut, snug black top. She left her hair down. Johnny always liked it on the rare occasions that she let her hair down.

Harleen and Johnny were best friends throughout school. They met in Philosophy 212: Ethics, the fall of their freshman year. Johnny was cute, and confused, and Harleen was beautiful and set the curve. After a few study sessions they became inseparable. Of course, they were never involved sexually. Harleen had her fair share of brief encounters with dozens of men in college, but Johnny stuck around. None of the others ever cared to. It was her firm belief that sex would have crippled the perfection of their relationship. That's why she always made it very clear to Johnny that she was not interested in him sexually. Practically flaunted every sexual relationship right in front of his nose. It was better that way. Kept the boundaries firm.

That didn't mean he couldn't dress up for him. Harleen had always loved the way that Johnny looked at her. Hungry and curious. He loved to look.

Johnny dropped out half way through their junior year. The band had gotten a contract. He was now topping the Billboard charts and appearing on MTV. He was the rock star he had always wanted to be.

The club was packed past capacity, but it didn't take her long to find Johnny. He wasn't very tall, only about five foot eight. His hair was a deep jet black, and he wore it long. Just long enough to touch his shoulders and fall seductively into his caramel colored eyes. Not many guys can pull off long hair but Johnny did it effortlessly. There was something amazing about him. The same aura that hovered around men like Steven Tyler, and Bono. It was an unmistakable energy. He still looked the same, except for a few more tattoos, and he had pierced his bottom lip and eyebrow. The groupies were gathered around him basking in their immaturity and idiocy. Harleen stayed a few feet back, waiting for_ him _to notice _her_. Sure enough, her plan worked.

Johnny caught her in his line of vision and waved. She twiddled her fingers in return, and within moments Johnny fought his way over from the bar.

"Since when do big rock stars hang out with the lowly fans?"

"Since when does Harley Quinzel attend rock concerts?"

"How are ya, Johnny? You're still the only one that calls me Harley," she hugged him, but the warmth that used to emanate from him seemed diminished.

"Fantastic. The new album is released Tuesday," he licked his lips and ran his tongue over the silver ring in the center of his bottom lip. "You?"

"I'm living with Alexander, now. And I got a job working on criminal psychosis."

"You're still with that prick?"

"Now, Johnny—"

"No, Harley. Last I heard of him he threw you down the stairs. What now? Is he cheating on you, too?"

Harleen bit her lip and stared Johnny in the eye, answering him without words.

"Goddammit, you didn't change at all. You're still fuckin' nuts Harl. Every time you pick some asshole that shits on you."

His words ran through her like a knife, hot and harsh through her flesh. He couldn't possibly mean it?

"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry, Harley," he apologized once he fully understood the terrified look on her face. "It's just, you paraded every other shit faced moron in front of me, and I've never seen you happy."

Harleen stared at him startled. Obviously fame had made him more open and honest, and less frightened.

"Listen, babe. Stick around. Our new single is up first. It's the song that I wrote for you. The one I emailed you about. I gotta head backstage we're on in a minute. But stick around. You're still as pretty as ever."

The crowd went wild as the band came on stage.

"Alright, alright. Pipe down people, we know that you love us, and WE LOVE GOTHAM CITY!" at this the screaming reached an all time high.

"Ok, ok. So our newest single is first on the docket, and the woman I wrote it for is in the audience. To Harley. I loved you."

His words hit her like a truck. Loved. He was supposed to love her now. Not past tense. Love. Present tense. The music had started, dazed Harleen turned towards the stage and watched as Johnny picked up the mic and began to sing. She was right, he really did have an energy. Closing his eyes to the surroundings, he allowed himself to be absorbed in the music, clutching the microphone in his grip, swaying to the music and pounding his heel to the beat.

_Don't turn around today_

_I'll keep reality away_

_I'll shelter evil from your eyes_

_I'll be a product of a dedication_

_To your worth, and heart location_

_Giving you a happier life_

_Further down the road_

_I swear you're gonna learn_

_It takes **two** to be a couple in love_

_Hidden in the broken shadow of regret_

_I am here when you have taken enough_

_It'll take awhile_

_For you to see_

_You are beautiful without him_

_You are given your pride and I do believe in you_

_Are you happy?_

_You're better alone_

_I can see your ability_

_To be strong and motivated,_

_You have shown_

_He's providing insecurities_

_A struggle to be free_

_Is commonly unknown_

_When a tear becomes a symbol of you_

_Your heart is separating for Utopia_

_But your body isn't ready to choose_

_It'll take awhile_

_For you to see_

_You are beautiful without him_

_You are given your pride and I do believe in you_

_I'm so full of pity_

_I see through your body_

_It's comin' to nothing_

_Forgetting you're something_

_I see through the meaning_

_Your hidden depression_

_Has given a reason_

_To you and your critical dream_

_Your critical dream_

_Didn't take awhile for you to see_

_You are beautiful without me_

_You were only a waste_

_Of my time and energy_

_You were only a waste of my time and energy_

A waste of time? He called her a waste of time. When the song ended he looked directly to where she was standing, her mouth agape, and eyes wide with tears. She didn't stay for the rest of the concert. Johnny started singing _CRASH_'s remake of Kiss' Beth, which he wrote for his girlfriend. Jessica. She was a brunette little bimbo. Harleen tried to tell herself she was only a second rate version of what Johnny never had: his Harley. A waste of time?

When Harleen got home, Alex was already there.

"Alex?"

"How many times I gotta tell you, it's Alexander. Stupid bitch. Come 'ere."

"Sorry, Alexander, baby, puddin', it's been a long night."

She walked to him, looking to find comfort. Fiercely, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her mouth to his. He began to devour her whole, throwing her clothes around the room and removing his pants. He dragged her upstairs to their bedroom, where he fucked her, doggie style, and proceeded to pass out. Harleen stayed awake that night, haunted by the new hit. Alexander loved her. Johnny just couldn't see that. Johnny just didn't understand because she didn't love him back.

A waste of time?


	2. Into the Lion's Den

Title: Sympathy for the Devil

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in the following story belong to me. They are all property of DC comics. I'm doing this for fun and not for money! Please don't sue me!

Chapter 2: Into the Lion's Den

Harleen looked a long while at her reflection that morning. The usually massive amount of glistening blonde hair was pulled tightly into a clean bun. A pair of modern, Fendi glasses sat on her nose and framed her lightly made-up eyes. She looked professional in her starched, pink blouse and knee length charcoal pencil skirt, but in her own mind it seemed as though she was six again, wearing her mother's clothes. Her tan legs were smashed into a pair of too small panty hose, and her feet pressed into a pair of high, black, round toed pumps. There was something about the image that was mere degrees away from perfection. Something about it was simply incorrect. Whatever the flaw, it was practically undetectable.

The building towered on it's isolated road, miles away from the glimmering lights and façade of the big city. The tall, stone, walls protruded from the sky of trees in the solitude of the forest. The drive to work would clearly take her an hour a day. Harley cursed under her breath. Stupid city traffic.

The heart of Gotham looked like Metropolis from far away. It was a big city with sparkling lights and an aura of constant motion. Full of life, power and vivacity. But the reality of the situation was that, underneath; Gotham was as twisted as the winding country roads that led to the asylum, and as haunted and disturbed as its residents. In Gotham City there were no Superhero sightings, bright colors, or even daylight. There were intriguing rumors of a Batman, and an inexplicable bump in the night to preoccupy continuous nightmares.

Harley's little red convertible sped down the narrow streets. She was already twenty minutes late. It was only the first day. She hated being late: punctual people were reliable people, and she was one of those reliable people. The large iron gateway loomed before her as she took the final turn. The word ASYLUM was wrought from a mass of black metal, mangled and twisted into a vile concoction of the word. The car screeched to a halt outside the institution with a piercing squeel. Parking space #49-Harleen Quinzel. She had a sign.

"I'm so sorry I'm late Dr. Arkham," she said grasping at her falling notebooks as she bounded up the long stone staircase to where the good doctor was standing.

"Don't worry, Harleen. You came very highly recommended, and I trust that you simply didn't understand the length of the commute to our little hospital from the big city. No harm done. Everyone's first trip is a little longer than they'd imagined."

Dr. Arkham's blue eyes twinkled beneath a pair of bulky glasses and his large smile was stained from years of coffee and nicotine. What hair he had left had gone white, and his small mustache remained the only marking of his once dark brown locks. Looking him up and down, Harley decided that he was about thirty pounds over weight, the excess lying mostly in his abdomen. He wore a long white lab coat, and navy blue slacks with shiny shoes. His shoes were so perfectly polished that one could easily seek their reflection in the toes. They were the shoes Harley always imagined honest men wore when she was a child: just something about the cleanliness and business of them. The upper right hand chest pocket of the coat was embroidered with silver script: Dr. Julian Arkham.

"Here is your lab coat, Harleen," his tone was kind, stern and a little bit sad. "The color of embroidery signifies your certification. Mine, like yours, is silver. High security ward," he handed her a white coat, similar to his, and they began walking through the establishment. "Blue is the folks in the middle, and yellow is those guys who have it easy. Those with yellow aren't allowed past the fifth floor. Blue can't traverse beyond the eighth. And we can go all the way to the top," Harley smiled at him uncomfortably as she slipped on her coat.

They walked at a brisk pace down the corridor and got into a large silver elevator. Dr. Arkham placed his finger on the sole button, 'B', and slowly the large machine lurched to life.

"This is your identification card. It will allow you access into the chambers, and into your office. Without it you'll be lost and locked out. I'm taking you to your office now. I apologize for the lack of windows, but it was the best we could do for you at the moment," the stepped off the elevator and into a wide, dim hallway.

Her office was a small room at the end of the cavernous corridor. A shoebox stuffed away in a moldy corner. Harley scanned her card to let them in, and placed her spiral notebooks and binders on her desk. Straightening her glasses she returned to Dr. Arkham, who hadn't removed himself from the doorway, and they headed off again.

Shortly after it was back onto the large elevator. "I'll apologize now for the age of the building. Most of our offices are in the basement, and for securities sake we've placed in an elevator. To use it you must swipe your card. Limited access, you'll soon find, is a blessing from above. But the elevator only travels to our offices. We'll be hiking the rest of the way."

There was a long, uneven stairwell, that ran the height of the Asylum. Obviously an attribute to the original structure. It creaked with every step, and the steep climb seemed relentless. With each floor they passed, Dr. Arkham offered a narration.

"This is the low security ward. Outpatient. All that jazz. These are the boys in yellow. They have the bottom five floors and do most of the lightweight stuff. Nothing you'll be dealing with really. You have much more on your plate," he smiled and continued on his way, Harley following about two steps behind. The sunshine crept through the windows and a pleasant aura seemed to surround this area. The patients were mostly smiling. While the basement seemed to smell of old books, dusty knowledge and paranoia, this section of the hospital was clearly stress relief, minor pains and complete recovery.

"The people in the medium security ward are permanent residents. They are treated and monitored 24 hours a day. These are your average patients. Textbook cases. Nothing out of the ordinary. If we were a regular hospital, in a regular city, this would be considered the end of the road. As it is…we're a little bit different."

The sector of the building was a little more somber. It gave off the smell of a hospital, and while offering nothing of comfort it was also devoid of fear. It seemed sterile and bland. The doors were stronger than those of the first five floors, and there were fewer pleasantries, but this was nothing of nightmares and fright. Your average crazies. If there was such a thing.

"Dr. Blackwell speaks well of you. Top in his research group," Dr. Arkham added kindly before reaching the top floors.

"Well thank you. I enjoyed working with him. Especially in the area of criminal psychology. He's a brilliant man. My senior thesis dealt with his revolutionary breakthroughs in the areas criminal psychology and profiling."

"Exactly why I have you working on MY floor. Are you ready to see what you came here for?" Large metal doors stood in their way now, and security guards were standing on either side. With a creak of a door the severity of the situation became all too real, and a world that was deemed unshakable, was finally probed. Harley hadn't been prepared for everything.

The cells of the institution were built for solitary confinement. The high walls gave way to one large glass panel. Through this small window one could see the world of the mad men and women residing in the depths of Arkham Asylum. This is where the super criminals were brought. The Batman paid regular visits. This very location most people only read about in the news. The stench in the air reeked of madness and an aura that was intangible. An insanity so vast and twisted lived within and it was not palpable within the confines of any room, though the good stone structure was trying its best.

Harley crept along beside Dr. Arkham. It was the first time he had gone silent since she had arrived. He was letting her take it all in: the seering madness, the cartoonish detachment, the pathetic rage. Slowly, she turned her head from side to side, observing the faces she had only seen on Channel 3, or read about in the papers, before today.

It was eons from the wards below them. The universe here was altered. The air became thicker, the stench more pungent, the light flickered out. This was the heart of the city. This was the lunacy inside.

A small beam of white light was cast across the cell to her left. A small, round man sat in the corner. His hair hung in oily strands, and his eyes glinted a cruel black color. They seemed to pierce her flesh as she walked by. His pallid skin looked transparent and practically blue. His elegance lost, Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin to the News Media, sat rubbing his round belly with his thick, misshapen hands. As she walked by, the light was cast through the bars at different angles, and he was lost in the wreckage and shadows of his cell.

The next cell on her right had a small rose in front of the window. It was alone in a small clay pot, fighting for exposure to any kind of light. As Harley passed, Pamela Isley, a.k.a. Poison Ivy, pressed a sun starved palm to the glass. Her petite figure had begun to wane, and her flaming red hair was a mess. It fell in tousled strands around her small shoulders, ratted and sloppy. Her green eyes were aflame with salvaged anger and raw obsession. Slowly, she ran her sharp nails down the glass and smiled provocatively at Harley. Her vividly colored lips mouthed silently to her, "You don't know what you're getting into." As soon as she had appeared, she was gone. Faded into the green aura of light that seemed to surround her cell. The aura, like Ivy, was a strange phantom, containing no real source and no real destination.

Dr. Arkham remained silent, and the deeper the two delved into the cavern, the more frustrating the villainous inhabitants became. They had created the epitome of a lion's den. The more threatening the beast, the further in it was housed. At the end of the corridor there were police and four psychiatrists.

Wicked, maniacal laughter erupted from behind the glass, piercing the silence around them. As Harley slowly approached the window, something inside her stomach did a back flip. Not from fear. From intrigue. Coupled with curiosity and partnered with trepidation.

His laughter was the stuff of urban legend, and yet in person it was nothing like she had imagined. It was much higher, much eerier. In person there was a dimension of cruelty and irrationality, which was incomprehensible unless witnessed. The people crowded around the window parted as she approached and let her take a look. Warily, she took a step forward.

"Don't be afraid, Harley. He's just another patient now," the Dr.'s voice was kind and seemed out of place in the picture and scene at hand.

In person he was nothing like the pictures. That was the first thing she noticed. The photos and television appearances were grim attempts to capture something ethereal. They were all crude caricatures, never truly grasping the truth. Never getting it right.

The colors of his face were blinding and completely in violation of every law of nature. His hair was an acidic green. The kind of green that one would see on improperly dyed hair. Yet it was more vibrant than that. More unnatural.

His skin was a breathing oxymoron. So white that one would believe it to be transparent, yet at the same time so ridiculous that it could be nothing but opaque. It was flawless in its color and complexion. Pure white: truer than snow and smoother than a wedding dress. The deep blue veins in his muscles tinged it a slight blue, making it seem even more immaculate.

The muscles of his face were contorted as well. The sickening grimace of the man who never understood a proper smile to begin with. Never could possibly grasp the ideal reality of an honest happiness. The creases in his skin and stark contractions of the muscles twisted something in Harley's insides. He was in pain. He was in constant pain. His smile was putting him through excruciating pain.

And the ghostly red color of his lips. They were the shade of freshly drawn blood and christened his face with a sensation of cruelty. Large and wide, they were the crowning touch on his madness, and his grin. Through them his large, yellowing teeth were exposed. Teeth that could shred you in moments. Teeth that had drawn blood before, and would not hesitate to do so again.

He looked up from his interrogation at Harley. Made direct eye contact. His eyes were bloodshot and dead. There as a lack of soul and a terrifying void of sympathy within them. Yet the green pools, which matched his hair, seemed to probe her as he raised his left eyebrow. He took two steps forward and twiddled the fingers of his right hand at her in a silly little wave. Some of the anger and rabid malice of his face seemed to fade.

"I'll reveal the location of the bodies, detective," he pressed his index finger to the glass where Harley was standing, "To her."


	3. Red Rose

Title: Sympathy for the Devil

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in the following story belong to me. They are all property of DC comics. I'm doing this for fun and not for money! Please don't sue me!

Chapter 3: Red Rose

"Arkham, are you insane?" Jim Gordon yelled pounding his shaking fists against the table, the spittle flying from his mouth.

"Gordon, she's an employee now, and why not jump both feet in on her first night?"

"Into The Joker! Arkham, it's ridiculous! For Christ's sake…" Gordon was gripping onto the small wooden table with both hands. His face was pink from yelling and his large glasses seemed to be slipping down his nose. This rumpled brown trench coat was blustering in the cold night air entering the small office from the open window.

Harley had arrived late that morning for her first day on the job. After a long day touring the Asylum, close to the end of her shift, Dr. Arkham brought her to the high security ward of the hospital. There were psychiatrists and police working with the criminal, Jack Napier, more commonly known as The Joker. He picked Harley. Hand picked her. The Joker wanted to work with her. This was amazing.

It had been an hour since the proposition was first placed on the table. The sun had almost set, and wind outside was growing cold, as the sky became a deeper and deeper blue.

Harley sat at the small round table, looking back and forth between Dr. Arkham and Commissioner Jim Gordon. She had been for the last hour. The room was slowly spinning in her mind and she could not process what was happening around her. It was too difficult. This was entirely too important. Harley of course wanted Dr. Arkham to win the argument. She wanted to dive into the case of a lifetime: personal psychiatric aid to Gotham's most twisted mastermind. People would respect and revere her for it.

And yet Jim Gordon seemed to think it was a terrible idea. Harley couldn't help but note that the aged cop almost seemed frightened for her. That beginning her career on a high note could somehow be dangerous. She silently scoffed at the idea and mentally resented the old man. And yet, deep inside her bones, Harley felt that Jim Gordon was a nice man, through and through.

"Jim, this is the Mayor's wife and son…he wants answers. Harley can get them. Doesn't the Mayor deserve to get the answers he wants?"

"Everyone in this type of situation wants answers, Dr. Arkham. Being the Mayor's family doesn't make their corpses any more valuable, and being the Mayor's questions doesn't make them anymore pertinent."

In that second the room slammed into focus. The deep, rasping voice came from the hint of a shadow in the corner. The breathing myth.

"What do you want to do?" Gordon's voice escaped sadly, as his body sighed and he turned, almost pleading, into the darkness.

"Let her try. The Joker is incapacitated, for now. Watch her carefully, and the instant he caves in, pull her out. The instant."

"Alright, Ms. Quinzel. We'll give it a go. Get her back over there, Julian," Gordon's face had turned to stone. "I'll keep you—" when he turned to address the darkness once again, it was only a shadow.

Four guards were posted outside the door as Harley prepared to enter the room. Softly securing her bun with her left hand, straightening her glasses with her right, and squaring her shoulders: she placed a firm hand on the door and entered. A lilac legal pad was pressed against her chest and her black high heels clicked against the ground.

"Hello, Mr. Napier," her voice came off much more fragile than she had wanted.

"Call me Joker," he sat in the metal seat opposite the door. His wrists were shackled to the arms of the chair, yet he seemed casual. Two more guards exited as Harley entered.

"Ok, Mr. Joker…we should begin," she tried to make herself sound more commanding, but with little success. In fact, her voice was merely above a whispering stutter. There was something about the way he was staring at her. Harley knew he was undressing her with his eyes. He sat lounged in his hard metal seat, his left foot crossed lazily over his right knee. Harley noted that standing; his long thin frame would tower over her own petite figure. Softly, she lowered herself into the opposite seat, crossing her legs and clicking her pen. Taking one deep breath, she regained her composure to begin.

When she again raised her eyes all she found was a wicked smile and those probing eyes. They slowly wandered over her legs as he ran his tongue over his teeth, and she knew they were mentally exploring under her skirt as he let out a sinister chuckle.

"Dr. Quinzel, is it?" he said with a jovial flair. "What is your first name?"

"We're not here to talk about me, Mr. Joker," she said with a smile.

"You give a little bit, and then I will. It's only fair, Doc."

"Fine. My first name is Harleen. Where have you hidden the bodies of Margaret and William?"

"Harleen Quinzel…Harley Quinn," he said in a singsong manner, tilting his chair back to balance on only the back two legs. With a thud he returned the other legs to the floor and cackled, "I like it. Reminds me of Harlequin! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Mr. Joker, if you could please just answer the question?"

"You do know of the Harlequin, don't you Ms. Quinn?"

"I do, Mr. Joker," she said with a nod.

"Mr. Joker is too formal for friends like us, Harl. Call me Mr. J."

"Okay, Mr. J. I would really appreciate it if you could tell me where you put the bodies."

"And spoil my fun," his garish smile grew bigger. "The way I see it: I think you're a blast, Doc. The second I tell you what you want to hear, you're gone. And all my fun is ruined," he said adding a mocking pout.

The light bulb went on in Harley's head. He really would miss her. That was the problem. He didn't want her to leave because once she was gone he wasn't sure if she would come back to him. And he liked her more than the other doctors. He knew that she understood him. That she could feel his pain. That's why he never communicated. That's why there had never been a chance for recovery.

"I'm not going anywhere Mr. J. I've agreed to treat you henceforth," she said with a small smile. "Do you like that idea?"

"Do you like the idea of edible underwear, Doc? I think we could raise some hell with edible underwear and a pair of handcuffs. I could make you scream," he almost grunted the last line as he leaned forward and furrowed his brow.

Harley looked away for a moment and unbuttoned two buttons of her pink blouse, revealing a little cleavage. She knew she was blushing bright pink, and needed to make it stop. Slipping off her glasses and placing them on the table next to her, Harley once again squared her shoulders.

"We can talk about my underwear another time. For now, I really need to know where you put those poor people."

"Doc…Harl, I thought you would understand. Those aren't poor people. William was a spoiled brat. His mother was a haughty bitch. And their father deserves to be wiped from his almighty throne, dismembered and flushed down MY throne…HAHAHA! In fact, the moment I tell you where they are he's going to try and have me killed."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, Harl, don't you see. He is going to strap me into an electric chair and fry me until my brains leak out my ears or explode. BAM!" he screamed as he slammed his chair against the floor and Harley jumped two inches out of her seat. "HEHEHEHEHEHE!" he cackled nastily. Harley knew that it was only hiding his internalized fear of dying.

Harley raised one eyebrow and waited.

"Come sit on my lap, Doc. I'll whisper the location in your ear."

Slowly Harley stood up from where she'd been seated. The soft clicks of her expensive shoes rang out as the only noise in the room, besides his shallow breathing. Gingerly, she placed herself onto his lap. She closed her eyes as she felt the tip of his sharp nose and the skin of his warped lips pass over the tender skin on her neck and come to rest next to her earlobe.

"They're buried in the garbage dump on the other end of the city. The one that used to be a carnival," his voice was like gravel in her ear. "Their faces are gone, but you'll find them sure enough," with a long tongue he gently traced the outline of her ear and briefly sucked on the lobe. "Remember the underwear, Doc. You can hold me to it if I'm alive long enough."

Harley's pulse was pounding as she picked up her glasses and legal pad and left the room. Closing the door soundlessly behind her, she turned to the Commissioner.

"They're in new the garbage dump on the outskirts of the other end of town. Try not to be scared when you find them. He says they have no faces," she said her voice trembling a bit.

"Acid again," Gordon spat.

"I'm going home," Harley said with a sigh.

"You did well, Quinzel. Hell of a first night."

Harley left the top of the car down on her way home. She liked the feeling of the wind in her hair and over her face.

Harley raced up the steps of the Asylum the next morning. Her long blonde hair was tied back into a high, thick ponytail, and her cobalt blue eyeliner matched her pumps and pencil skirt. She frantically searched her bag for her key card swearing under her breath as she looked.

"Dammit!" her forefinger shot to her mouth as she broke her nail and it began to bleed.

"Are you ok, Harleen?" his voice was earnest. Jason the daytime, top-level guard was looking at her with worried eyes. He was six foot six, with broad shoulders and an entirely intimidating build. His hair was a plain chestnut brown, as were his eyes. All Harley noticed was that he was entirely unoriginal and completely unexciting.

"No, Jason. I can't find my card. I've been here one day and I already screwed up!"

"Relax. I'll take you down. You'll find your card soon. No big deal," his smile was sweet as he looked down at her.

As the elevator lurched to a stop on the basement floor, Jason smiled and said, "See, all better. I have to head up, or I would stay with you. You'll find your card, Dr."

Harley smiled at him as the elevator door closed. Rolling her eyes she turned and walked down the damp hallway, contemplating how she was about to break into her office.

As she approached her office she noticed that the door was already open a crack. Terrified, she pushed the door the rest of the way, and took a silent step in. Craning her neck and turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees she looked for any signs of disturbance. There were none. Nothing had been taken. There were no signs of forced entrance or frantic exit.

Carefully, she crept towards her desk. On top of her notebooks and binders there lay a single, red rose in full bloom. Beneath it sat a small, acid green envelope. Inside she found her key card and a note card of the same color, with only one letter written on it in vibrant purple ink.

-J.


	4. New Self Image

Title: Sympathy for the Devil

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in the following story belong to me. They are all property of DC comics. I'm doing this for fun and not for money! Please don't sue me!

Chapter 4: New Self Image

"What did I tell you, Harl? They ordered the death penalty for me! Hehehehehehe!"

He was laughing it off. The poor thing was trying to laugh off this terrible situation. Harleen shook her head and just looked at him. After she had received the rose she decided that she needed to be granted another session with him. Somehow, she had gotten her way. She wasn't quite clear as to how that had worked out, but Dr. Arkham gave in happily. He trusted her. She liked it.

"Are you frightened?" she asked, placing the tip of her pen in her mouth and noticing as his eyes settled there.

She wore a black skirt, which came about mid thigh and had a high slit on the left side. Her sweater was tight and red with a low v-neck and she had let her blonde hair down around her shoulders. She even wore her contact lenses. Her lab coat rested open over her outfit, allowing the entire ensemble to be displayed.

Nibbling the tip of her pen slowly, she bathed herself in his stare, as it crept from her lips, to her breasts, to the hem of her skirt and the spot on her thighs where her left leg crossed her right.

"Not a bit, Doc. Not a bit. You see, I have this theory. They think I'm the devil. Isn't that a hoot? They don't see that I'm just a clown. A silly little clown with a different sense of humor."

"Alright…"

"Ya see, Harl, each of us has a devil inside. Those suits out there, they just don't see that they're just like me. They have devils, too, and they're gonna use 'em to fry my brains to bits! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! GET THE PUNCHLINE!"

Harleen glanced at the locked door and listened for the guards outside.

"Have you resigned yourself to death, then?"

"I don't see much option, Doc," he clicked the word doc against his teeth sharply. "I was wonderin'…"

"Yes, Mr. J?" she asked politely, though was careful with her tone so as to let anyone overhearing think she was merely appeasing him.

"Could you smile for me?"

"Excuse me?" she asked with her polite trained smile, "I already smile quite a lot."

"Not THAT smile. A REAL smile. Just for me. I know you have more in you than that! Dying man's wish…HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Slowly Harleen began to spread her smile across her face. It reached the comfortable point, which she had created for photographs. The smile she had manufactured to be considered more than attractive. To be considered stunning. Then she pushed it further. Let her overly large mouth spread into a wide smile with rounded cheeks. Her teeth were a brilliant white color.

"There…doesn't that feel better? You're a babe, Doc," he sniggered.

Harleen realized that it did. She'd been placing things into containers all her life, even her relationship with Alexander: she'd been making everything more polite, per se, and no it didn't feel that good. For the first time in her life Harleen wanted to let loose.

Really let go.

Be free.

Then something just snapped.

All her rules and structures, which had held her life together thus far, just collapsed. They broke the way a wooden board breaks against the force of a skilled hand. And for the first time in her over compartmentalized, highly civil life, she felt free. It was as if her entire life she had walked around with weights strapped to her back and suddenly they were gone. She was able to stand up straight. For the first time since she was twelve, and her mom told her that staying thin and being pretty were the most important things in life, and her dad said she'd never be smart enough: she was more than okay. She was weightlessly happy.

Walking over to the observation window she sealed it from view. She didn't think anyone was watching, but she wanted to be careful.

Chained to his chair the Joker looked at her quizzically, "I think I've had this dream before, Harl," he smiled and looked her over from head to toe as she approached.

With a clink against the metal chair Harley rested her black high heel in between his legs and millimeters from his groin. He tried to lift his hand to touch the black seam on the back of her stockings and looked furious when the shackles forbade him.

"Do I get this before I die? Is this my last meal?" he sounded excited and giggled some more.

"Shhh!" she placed her forefinger to her full lips. "I'm going to go talk to Arkham. There's got to be a way to save you. I'll find a way to save you."

"I love your lips. Can I bite them? HEHEHE!"

"Shhhhhh! Be sincere for a moment. I want to help you," her blue eyes widened as she attempted to silence him again.

Lifting her leg from the chair she watched as he hungrily devoured her body with his eyes. They traced the curves of her legs, hips and chest like a laser. Slowly his captivatingly strange, sadistic green orbs met with her innocent blue gaze and his wide smile spread far across his face.

"I'll get you out of this," she whispered it one last time, and pressed her supple lips against his. He smiled so sadly, she thought as she left the room.

Dr. Arkham wasn't quite as helpful the next time she approached him.

"Harleen, Doctor Quinzel, ARE YOU INSANE! He is a sadistic maniac with a warped definition of reality, and you want to REFORM HIM? NO ONE CAN REFORM OR DEFEND THE JOKER!"

Harley sat crouched in the chair in front of Dr. Arkham's desk. When they had started the conversation, he had been seated behind it, opposite her. Now, however, he was standing and pounding his fists against the strong wood, his face had turned the color of an unripe plum and white, foamy spit flew from his mouth.

"You have sympathy for this…this…MADMAN!"

"Doctor Arkham…I just wanted to ask, I mean the death penalty is so cruel…" she lowered her eyes as the vein in his fore head began to throb.

"Cruel? The man has committed two hundred and seventy five murders and tortured three hundred some odd people…AND THOSE ARE JUST THE ONES ON RECORD!" his voice boomed at the end like a thunder clap which had gotten eerily too close.

"I just think, if someone tried to _understand_ him…we'd make more progress," her voice squeaked when she spoke. It tended to jump octaves when she was nervous.

"Understand WHAT exactly, Doctor? He poisoned flowers last year on Mother's Day and forty-five women lost their lives. Why do you _want_ to understand THAT?"

"I just…"

"I'm firing you as of this evening, Doctor. I was clearly blind to think a student could handle these pressures," the tone in his voice evened out and he turned to pull her employee file. "I'll dispose of your file tonight. Clean out your office before you leave."

The tears were stinging the back of her eyes by now. She just lost her career. She had failed both Mr. J and herself.

"I'm doing this for your own good. Apply to Gotham General. You'll be happier practicing elsewhere. It will provide a much…_steadier_ lifestyle."

"Dr. Arkham…"

"Goodbye, Harleen. The Joker dies at dusk tomorrow come hell or high water."

Cleaning out her office turned out to be easier than she'd expected. Being there only two weeks, she only accumulated two boxes worth of 'personal items'. She threw the boxes into the backseat, tears streaming down her cheeks she took one last gaze at the asylum doors. Two of Arkham's assistants from the third floor had just ended shift and were leaving themselves. A thin, dark haired woman and a large man originally from California.

The woman turned to the man as Harley got into her car, "I told you she wouldn't last four weeks. Pay up."

The man slipped her fifty dollars.

Back at home, Harley turned on the news and listened to the announcements of the Joker's execution order. The tears continued to stream down her face, smudging her make-up. She had broken her promise. She prided herself on never breaking promises. The well-dressed anchorman, with his school-trained voice proclaimed that the Joker's gang was still at large, however all authorities feel that without the brains to motivate the operation, any ridiculous stunts were guaranteed not to occur. Wiping the black streaks from her cheeks, Harley thought how sad it was that The Joker's own friends wouldn't be able to help. He had no one. Everyone hated him. He was going to die that way.

Curling up onto her side, she laid on the bed in the fetal position, sobbing. Just as she had reached the height of her misery, the commercials kicked on. She sat up, cross-legged, and reached for the remote to turn off the TV. As she did, a liquor commercial kicked on.

A bunch of beautiful twenty somethings sat at a party miserable and whining about how terrible their existence and this party turned out. Finally grasping the remote, she aimed it at the TV and a cheery jingle kicked in. Onto the screen flipped a small girl in a black and red jester's outfit. She handed the ladies drinks and kissed the nerdy boy on the left. And then the party was filled with people and streamers and confetti. The red bottle spun into focus and the brand read Harlequin Liquor: Let Loose Your Spirit for Fun!

Harley smiled wide and vaulted from her bed. She had an idea. Rummaging through the bottom of her closet she lifted two old Halloween costumes from the bottom. One was the black spandex outfit she had worn to be a ninja three years ago, and the other the remnants of her Supergirl costume. Bracing her feet against the closet doorframe she tugged hard on the handle of her sewing machine finally pulling it free and landing on her back with a great deal of force.

Rewinding her TiVo, she paused on the sprite's image and used it as the outline. She cut and sewed vigorously until two in the morning. Looking at the clock it dawned on her that she would not be seeing Alex that night. He'd found somewhere else to stay.

Slipping on the unitard, Harley stepped into the full-length mirror and her spirits fell. It looked like a body stocking with a diamond pattern and a floppy hat. Something was missing.

She studied the picture again and it dawned on her. Frantically she slipped off the outfit and ran naked to the other room. Opening the closet in the spare room she slipped out a large, ivory box. Running gleefully back to her workshop, she slit the tape binding the edges and opened the box.

Inside was a beautiful white satin dress and princess veil. Her mother's wedding dress. Licking her lips impatiently, she pulled out the dress and the veil. Lifting the large scissors she began to cut away at both frantically. She layered the beautiful shimmering veil over the satin and made baubles for her feet and hat. Using the same layering technique she made her neck decoration and ruffles for her wrists.

Slipping into the outfit again she rushed to the mirror like a kid on Christmas morning.

It would be perfect. If only her hat didn't look like it was a lump with two flaccid penises on top. Frowning she thought for a moment. Scampering to her hair products, she lifted to hair ties. Slicking her hair down on her head, with a perfect center part, she made two full pigtails. Slipping on her hat again, this time with her hair in the sleeves, they stood up. They even bounced when she did. She squealed in delight, and taking the hat off again, ran back to her closet.

Pulling up the little black domino mask that accompanied her ninja costume, she turned and bolted to her make up in the bathroom. Wetting her spongy applicator, she dipped it into her black eye shadow: the one she used to line her eyes before. Carefully, she traced perfect circles around the bones of her eyes and shaded in the entire inner area. Replacing the domino mask onto her face, she was impressed. No skin could be seen. Just the black of the makeup and the blue of her clear eyes.

Without the mask it looked like someone punched her twice, but with it: it was a masterpiece.

However, it was still imperfect in a way. Thinking to herself, she remembered that the rest of the Joker's goons always painted their faces as an association thing. White faces and red lips to pay homage to the big guy.

"I've never been one to break tradition," she thought with a chuckle and dug for her foundation. It was her winter foundation. The one she used when she was pale in January from lack of tanning. Luckily, she had been attempting to keep her summer glow this fall. It only took five coats to get the right color.

Lifting her red lipstick from the counter she colored in all of her large lips a bright, brick red. She scrunched her nose in concentration, and lifted the eye shadow sponge. With the tip of the applicator she rimmed her lips with a thin black line.

Her stomach turned with the thoughts of what she was about to do. It would be dangerous, of course, but she would be saving a man's life and soul in the process. It was dawn now and though her body should have started to quiver, she had never felt more energized.

"I'm acomin', Mistah J!" she hollered at the top of her lungs, but it came out much higher than she expected. The same tone of voice that escaped when her nerves twisted in her stomach. And the accent she lost as a teenager, came back.

With a shrug she slipped on her mother's white wedding gloves and stared at the perfect image she had created in the mirror.

"Your Harley Quinn's acomin'!"


	5. Broken

Title: Sympathy for the Devil

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in the following story belong to me. They are all property of DC comics. I'm doing this for fun and not for money! Please don't sue me!

Chapter 5: Broken

Harley glanced at her speedometer as she raced down the road: it just hit 125 miles per hour. Not fast enough. She had promised. Pressing down hard with all the strength of her well-toned leg, she rammed the accelerator to no avail.

The plan was simple. She would help him break free of his unworthy fate and slip away into the night. No one would be the wiser.

The purple and pink tones of dawn streaked across the sky like smeared blood, and the iron gates of Arkham Asylum protruded like a knife in the dark. She stopped the car right outside the gates.

Crouching, Harley squeezed herself through the bars of the front gate and dashed up the steps. Quietly she crept through the hallways and up the stairs. Pausing to catch her breath, she turned to look at the guards watching over the large metal doors. They were big. Shift was almost over. She had an idea.

Diving into a summersault, she rolled out in front of the guards and hollered, "Ta da!" her voice was unnaturally high and squeaky. She had never heard it like this before, and as annoying as it was she couldn't help thinking it was all for the best. The further this identity seemed from the illustrious Dr. Quinzel, the better.

The guards seemed dumbfounded for the moment. She had thrown them off. It was working. She flipped forward once and stood nose to nose with one of the guards.

"What the…?"

"Mwah!" she exaggerated the noise of the kiss she pressed to the man's lips, as she grabbed the key card from his belt. Cartwheeling to her left she found herself pressed against the next guard.

"Hiya!" she twiddled her fingers in his face, while her other hand grabbed his key card. Diving into another roll, she slipped the key in the slot and slammed the door behind her.

On the other side of the door she could hear the guards pounding and shooting. They wanted in. Unfortunately, the doors constructed to keep the world's greatest criminal masterminds in, also kept the good guys out. Immediately, she broke into a run and headed straight for his cell. The others stared through their large glass windows as the costumed girl ran by. Two Face even mouthed the words: "Who's the new kid?" across the hallway to the Scarecrow, who shrugged.

A loud pop echoed throughout the hallway as she pressed the key card into the lock. The door creaked and hissed as she pushed it open.

The Joker was pacing back and forth in his cell, but he stopped dead and stared as the door opened. He kept his eyes fixated on the figure moving in shadow. Not the Bat. Not now.

"Who are you?" he asked with a maniacal smirk and narrowed eyes.

Slowly, the dark figure moved into the light. His mouth fell open.

"Harley Quinn, at your service!" she chuckled and stooped into a deep bow.

In a few mere strides he was looming over her, his lean form bending to look her in the eyes. A vein in his neck throbbed. His hair was greasy and his clothes were filthy.

"What?!" he ground his teeth together and spat. This was ruining everything. And he had prepared such an elegant show.

"I'm here ta save ya!" she squeaked with delight. "Let's go!" her hand shook as she grabbed his wrist and pulled him with her out into the hallway. The door at the end of the hall burst open just as they stepped out.

"Now what?" he growled.

Harley thought for a moment while she desperately searched the area. Her smile came back almost instantly. Sprinting to the wall, she quickly broke the glass imprinted with the word EMERGENCY. Turning the small red wheel with all the might of her small, toned arms, she turned the fire hose on the guards and felt a kick back as the water jettisoned from the hose. Both guards were knocked off their feet. Releasing the hose, Harley watched as it danced through the sky like some magic snake in Aladdin.

"Sorry, boys!" the Joker cackled happily as he stole one of the guard's guns and proceeded to shoot both in the head.

Harley froze in her place as she heard the gun discharge and saw the flash. One of the men on the floor was Jason, the guard that had let her into her office awhile back. His eyes were unfocused and a pool of blood was expanding underneath his head, a blackened hole burnt through his cranium.

"Come on!" the Joker growled and yanked her towards him. He cackled as they ran from the Asylum, taking out three more guards on the way down.

She hadn't meant for anyone to die.

The alarms sounded as they sped away in her car. The Joker lounged next to her, his feet propped on the dashboard, thinking.

"So, Doc, why didja do it? Is it because you want me?" he raised and lowered his eyebrows a couple times.

"I just…I don't know," the squeakiness in her voice had faded, "but I'll drop you off wherever you'd like. And then I'm free. I kept my promise. You weren't killed."

"Hum," he cocked one eyebrow and spouted an address at her, returning to a lounging position.

Forty minutes later she dropped him off at an abandoned theatre in a deserted area of the city.

She watched him as he walked away.

"Boss!" one of the huge men lurched to a standing position as the Joker entered the theatre. "I thought…"

"I would break out tonight? That was the plan," he snarled as he cleared the table in front of him in a single stroke, sending takeout containers flying. "As it is, I need you to look up the address of a Dr. Harleen Quinzel," he paused a moment. "And get me some bleach, too. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" He slammed the door behind him.

Harley had spent the time since she had rid herself of the Joker locked in the bathroom crying. She had immediately showered. Washed herself until her skin gleamed red. Now she sat crumpled against the bathroom door, her damp hair dripping and her eyes puffy from crying.

The pounding on the bathroom door signaled that Alexander had gotten home.

"Come out here, Harl!" The banging grew louder and louder until she finally opened the door.

"What?!" she shrieked.

"Fuck you!" he spat.

"No! Fuck you, you little…" she shoved him. And slapped him. Harley couldn't stop herself.

Downstairs a man had just stepped out of a purple Rolls Royce. His white-gloved hands placed a gift box at the door and he stepped back, waiting. A few moments later he walked through the smoke, shaking hands with the crisp, burnt man at the door.

He studied his white spats and shiny black shoes as he waited for the elevator, humming.

"You stupid fuck!" she screamed so hard it felt as through her throat would tear in two. Breathing hard through her nose she gave him one last shove, in an attempt to push him down the stairs.

"You bitch!" he yelled and threw the empty beer bottle at her head, having caught himself before he teetered. She ducked just in time.

"Ground floor," a pleasant woman's voice sounded as the doors opened.

"C'mere you cunt!" Alex roared as his fist made contact with her cheekbone. She felt her eye throb in the socket.

"Floor Three," the shoe tapped impatiently.

"You fuckin' whore!" she lay in a puddle at his feet while as he repeatedly kicked her in the abdomen.

The man whistled a tune to himself as he skipped down the hallway.

Alex was on his knees now, choking her. Things were starting to go black.

She heard the click of a gun being cocked.

Alex had let go. Oxygen was flooding her lungs. Looking up, Harley gasped at the sight of him. Holding a long, ivory handled revolver to Alex's head was the Joker. Not the Joker she had met in the Asylum. The icon in his full glory.

His acidic green hair was clean now, and combed neatly underneath a wide dark hat with a purple band. His eyes burned and smile gleamed. The notorious purple suit wasn't really purple at all. It looked black, but shined purple in the light. The same was true for his hat. As if it they had inherited a piece of his own aura. A full white carnation was placed in his buttonhole and a neat bow tie was tied around his neck. He wore immaculate white gloves and spats on his shiny black shoes.

"Now, let's clean up that mouth of yours…"


	6. Guardian Demon

Title: Sympathy for the Devil

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in the following story belong to me. They are all property of DC comics. I'm doing this for fun and not for money! Please don't sue me!

Chapter 6: Guardian Demon

"You crazy ass motherfucker!" Alex screamed as the Joker tied him into the chair.

"Tsk, tsk! You'd kiss your mother with that mouth!" the Joker chuckled and pinched him on the cheek. "Hold his mouth open, Harl."

"I'll kill you for this! You slut!" Alex was practically foaming from the mouth.

Harley scrambled over to him, her robe loose and hanging from her shoulders, almost exposing her breasts. Her hair was tangled and her hands were shaking. As she reached out he tried to bite her. She screamed. The Joker punched him and made his nose bleed.

"Hold him!" he bellowed.

Harley pulled him and turned his face to the sky, prying his jaw open.

Making grand motions the Joker pushed a bright orange funnel onto his mouth and down his throat. Alex gagged.

Brandishing a large bottle of bleach the Joker sat down next to Alex. "You can't kill her if you're already dead! HEHEHE!"

He uncapped it with two motions of his long fingers and wafted the fumes towards his sharp nose.

Raising himself to his full height he started to pour the rancid smelling liquid down his throat. Alex squirmed and choked and fought, until he didn't. Blood curdled with the bleach inside the funnel and the smell of ammonia mixed with the smell of copper.

Harley let go and backed away from the body, wide eyed.

"Go get dressed," he barked, and sat down next to the gurgling body.

Harley stood still for a moment, watching him.

"And wear something nice. I can't let you ruin my image!" he grinned even wider and straightened his suit coat.

Harley dashed up the stairs and let her robe fall to the floor. Standing nude in front of her closet she contemplated her clothing. Pulling an inky blue sheath dress from her closet, she laid it out on the bed. She stepped into a lacy black thong, bra and garter belt to match. Slipping her nude thigh highs up and attaching them, she slipped into the dress. Pulling a large, black, Prada tote from the closet she shoved one little black dress inside, along with a red baby doll teddy. She couldn't decide why she was doing it, but it just seemed right. Stepping into her round toed black pumps, she stepped in front of the mirror. Grabbing the closest brush she tamed her damp, messy hair and tied it into a sleek knot. Dumping the contents of her purse into her tote she rummaged for some make up and fixed her face.

Taking one last look in the mirror, she went to close her bag. Her Harlequin outfit caught her eye from the corner. Dashing to the other side of the room she grabbed it and the makeup she had used that morning and shoved those into the tote as well.

When she emerged from the room she found the Joker pacing in the living room, taking animatedly to Alex's upturned, lifeless face.

The sound of her shoes against the tile drew his attention.

"Yeeees?" he spoke the word with a warning.

"I just wanted to say thank you," her voice quaked.

The Joker just stared, and raised one eyebrow.

"He was going to kill me."

"Who's to say I won't?"

"Oh. Well," she walked slowly over to where he was standing, "I just wanted to give you a proper thank you," she leaned in and kissed him. At first it felt like she was kissing teeth, but soon enough his deep red lips met her glossy pink ones and he chuckled a little.

The Joker gave her a wolf whistle in response.

"M'lady," he offered her his arm. He was so much taller than she. In her heels her head just reached past his shoulder.

She smiled and said polite thank you. She even found that she meant it.

They slid into the back seat of the Rolls Royce and a hulking man wearing white face paint drove them back to the theatre. The entire ride the Joker sat stooped, drumming his fingers together rhythmically. He was thinking.

In fact, he was thinking what he wanted to do with her exactly. She was quite good looking. He had wanted to kill her. Now he was stuck with her. An interesting predicament.

She walked slowly behind him, her high heels clicking against the stage floor. She stood quietly and watched him as he talked to his three guards.

He beckoned for her to follow him and she did. Soon enough they were standing in what she could only assume used to be the old wardrobe room. Only now it had been made over into a bedroom for the notorious Clown Prince of Crime.

Slipping his shoes off and throwing his gloves onto the vanity, he turned to her and began barking orders.

"Lock the door."

She did as she was told.

He hung his suit coat on a chair and sat down.

"Come here."

Again she obeyed.

"Take off your dress."

She paused a moment, frightened, but again complied.

"Sit."

She lowered herself onto his lap and inhaled sharply. He had a hard on.

Sliding his hands down her toned legs he slipped off her shoes. Slowly, he traced the back seam of her stockings and undid her garters.

Her breathing was shallow, and her eyes were wide as she watched him. Carefully, she followed his slender fingers as they danced over her abdomen and back and to the clasp of her bra. He undid it and she let the garment fall to the floor, holding her breath and waiting.

Licking his lips slowly, he just looked at her for a moment before taking her breast into his mouth. She gasped as he did and began rocking her hips back and forth against his.

Pulling away to look her in the eye, he pushed the black lace underpants out of the way and slid his fingers inside.

"Naughty girl," his voice was guttural, "You're all wet."

She bit her bottom lip, almost feeling ashamed. She writhed against him as he played with her, and she felt herself coming to climax. He pulled away leaving a confused and sad expression on her face.

"You have to do for me, first."

Nodding in assent, she unzipped his fly and slipped down onto her knees.

Meanwhile, the Gotham Police force and the Batman had invaded Harley's apartment.

"Who was he?"

"Her boyfriend."

"Where is she?" the Batman's voice was harsh and cold.

"Gone," Gordon replied sadly.

"That means he's got her."

"That's what I was afraid of," Gordon said, sounding defeated. "Do you think she's still alive?"

"That's what I'm afraid of."


End file.
